


Lists

by orphan_account



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-17
Updated: 2010-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-12 18:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world doesn't reduce itself easily to lists, but Hawkeye has to start somewhere.  Written for FMA Ladyfest on LJ (fma_ladyfest).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lists

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AstridV](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstridV/gifts).



Hawkeye gets through her life by hedging it around with lists, familiar parameters: the number of juicy bones Black Hayate and the pups go through in a week, the one thriller she allows herself to buy each month because the pedant in her likes picking apart the shoot-out scenes, the amount of ammunition she carries on her at all times. On duty she writes some of them down, prioritizing reports on Ishbal's readiness for self-rule over assessments of live-fire exercises.

It's not at all like alchemical arrays, she tells herself, but she's never been good at self-deception. Her father explained quite a lot of theory to her, presumably thinking that if she was going to carry his secrets on her skin she might as well know what she was protecting. They both knew by then that she would never be an alchemist, not for any want of ability--she has always made a habit of competence in whatever she does--but for want of desire. Her experience of alchemists, even the good ones, has never made her regret that decision.

She keeps a particular list, or maybe a list of lists, in her head. Today the beginning goes something like this:

  

  * Protect Amestris's people
  
  

    * Support Mustang
  
  

      * Monitor Mustang for signs of dangerous ambitions (he's stepped back from the abyss once, but you never know, that's the thing; you can never know)
  

      * Advocate for Ishbalan self-rule (in her case, this means doing paperwork, as bureaucracy is bureaucracy and someone has to do it)
  

      * Dinner tonight at 7 p.m. sharp (so that they can remember, one to the other, that before they were soldiers generally and killers specifically, they were people)
  
  
  



It used to be simpler. It used to be that she believed in Mustang's vision of people protecting their subordinates, a chain of sentinel goodwill. The events two years ago taught herself that that's no longer enough. If an alchemist can conceive of sacrificing a nation of souls to his ambitions, then she, too, has to think _bigger_ ; has to compass her people, all of them, in her plans.

And that's the problem. Even when she narrows the scope to the immediate things, there's so much left to do. Her weekly dinners with Mustang, for instance. She provides the ingredients, usually a couple of steaks and a salad and a fresh baguette. He does the cooking, and she leans over the counter to watch while he pan-broils the steaks, no alchemy involved except the inevitable intimate knowledge of fire's workings, and they chat about inconsequential things because those are the things that matter most. How they managed to get the names of Black Hayate's pups all wrong: Fawn is the most boisterous of the lot and delights in jumping all over Mustang, while Pirate dozes next to Hawkeye's feet whenever he gets the chance, and Buck is almost ladylike in his manners, like his mother.

There's so much left to say and it makes no sense to say it, not now. They can play at domesticity like children playing dolls, but although they're comfortable in each other's shadows, theirs is not a future made for candied kisses and clandestine chocolates.

Mustang probably thinks she thinks of him as she tidies her apartment and brews coffee and peers out the window to see if he's coming down the street. He's one large entry in the list, but he's not the only entry in the list. She often thinks of Gracia and her daughter, of Maes Hughes' quiet grave and absent rain, of gunfire and oppression and tarnished secrets.

Hawkeye wonders sometimes if Mustang ever asks himself why she agreed to be the gun at his head. Personal loyalty is part of it, although it isn't the only reason. It was that she saw an ideal shining in his eyes and the will to pursue it.

Some mornings she wakes up with her trigger finger pulled tight against her palm, her arm steady even though her face is wet and her eyes ache. She understands that it's not over, that it's never over, that alchemy aside there's no such thing as a perfect being. That she'll always wonder if some tendril of corruption is snaking its way deeper into Mustang's heart. And if that same tendril is to be found in her, who has been at his side so long.

The list in her head is no longer and no shorter. But it's almost 7 p.m. and she's been drying the same spotless dish for the last ten minutes. She sighs and puts it in its cupboard.

Mustang knocks on the door at 6:58 p.m. She knows because the clock has captured her gaze; if she looked closer and closer, she would tumble into its heart, to wander forevermore in a land of gears and escapements and metallic precision. It's almost tempting. But the world she lives in is not so neat, and despite its aggravating tendency to upend her lists, she prefers it this way, on the whole.

Black Hayate has recognized Mustang, of course, and he barks once, ears pricking. The pups tumble after him, looking forward to their opportunity to mob the visitor.

Hawkeye opens the door. Smiles at Mustang. He looks tired around the eyes, like he's been looking too long at something that refuses to look back. "Lieutenant," he says formally, and holds out a tin wrapped in a satin ribbon. "I thought I'd bring dessert."

Neither of them is much for sweets, but she thanks him and puts the tin on the table.

The pups don't even wait until her back is turned to scamper toward him. Hawkeye can hear his laughter over the eager huffing and the occasional bark. "I could use a rescue here," he calls after her.

She emerges from her small dining area and says, tolerantly, "Down." Buck and Pirate comply immediately, while Fawn just grins and slobbers over Mustang's shoes. Black Hayate trots out and sniffs Mustang's proffered hand with rather more dignity.

"I don't know how you keep up with them," Mustang says as he takes off his coat.

"Pack behavior," she says, deadpan. "I'm sure a dog of the military would know all about it."

He waves a hand, acknowledging the hit, and heads into the kitchen. She follows him. They don't speak for a time, don't need to: this, too, is part of the routine.

The steaks are tender and juicy and perfectly salted, as always. Nevertheless, it is difficult for her to meet his eyes, to see what shapes are written in them, and she knows that he notices. Black Hayate lingers by her feet, and for once he doesn't beg for table scraps.

"You may as well open this," Mustang says, nodding at the tin.

The satin ribbon is a ridiculous touch; it pleases her. Lists are like ribbons, it occurs to her. They help you hold the world closed so you can open it a little at a time and deal with it when you are ready.

As illusions go, she's believed worse.

Inside the tin are the kind of fancy cookies that look like stained glass, with candy panes set into them. They're shaped like crescent moons and stars and roses, and they make her feel as though she's looking at some miniature fairytale realm.

"Where did you find these?" she asks, because she's genuinely curious.

"I was investigating a new bakery," Mustang says. "I think they're a front."

"And you went _personally_?"

"I'm touched that you're concerned"--his voice is teasing, but his eyes are not--"but they haven't made any secret of their presence, and they seem to be trying to appeal to the officer class, so it didn't seem unreasonable to pay them a visit myself."

She's asking the questions in the wrong order, but it can't be helped. "A front for what?"

"It looks like there are people investigating the events around Fuhrer Bradley's death. I rather doubt they're doing this in order to shore up Grumman's position. But we really should have seen this coming."

"This country is in the habit of conspiracy," Hawkeye says softly. "I don't imagine that's something easily forgotten." She reaches for a crescent cookie and bites down. The lemon candy-pane crunches pleasingly. "Is this going to affect the Ishbal situation?"

Mustang frowns as he taps the tin, making the cookies jump and rattle. "It might. I don't fault Grumman for his concern about political stability, but the Ishbalans are frustrated that they've been waiting so long for autonomy."

They talk until the sun dips below the horizon. He eats three cookies; she has one more. At last he puts his coat back on and thanks her for the evening, and she walks him to the door while the dogs wag their tails in farewell.

One item for today, done. Whether it's made any difference to the larger jigsaw of their situation, she's not sure. But Mustang is still thinking about Ishbal, and what they owe the Ishbalans; that's good. (There is no heroism in this. She makes it a point not to lie to herself about what she did in the war of extermination.)

The problem with lists is that they are essentially infinite. It's not possible, in Hawkeye's experience, to cross off every item. Something will always come up. And this is, as it turns out, no fault of the lists themselves, but of the way the world unribbons itself moment by moment, from past to present to future, cause unrolling into consequence. She can't fix everything that needs fixing. But she can make a start, one small item at a time.


End file.
